"Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. Keep your eye upon the lad. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming.
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